


fireproof (it wasn't me, i swear)

by freesiamoonbeam



Series: Adventures into ASOIAF [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, They said write I want to read so I did, subtle references to another fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freesiamoonbeam/pseuds/freesiamoonbeam
Summary: When Alyx Stark was born, the smithy burst into flames.Mikken says it was a stray spark, but the people at the courtyard, Jory Cassel included, swears that a bolt of lightning hit the domed roof. Others were skeptical; it was a clear day, and the midday sun had cast a great deal of light in the ever-snowed Winterfell. Still, the damage was clear: the forge was reduced to naught but ashes, the anvils were blackened, and the stone walls were marked with scorch marks that would be impossible to truly remove.In hindsight, this should have been Eddard Stark’s first clue.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark
Series: Adventures into ASOIAF [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148996
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	fireproof (it wasn't me, i swear)

When Alyx Stark was born, the smithy burst into flames.

Mikken says it was a stray spark, but the people at the courtyard, Jory Cassel included, swears that a bolt of lightning hit the domed roof. Others were skeptical; it was a clear day, and the midday sun had cast a great deal of light in the ever-snowed Winterfell. Still, the damage was clear: the forge was reduced to naught but ashes, the anvils were blackened, and the stone walls were marked with scorch marks that would be impossible to truly remove.

In hindsight, this should have been Eddard Stark’s first clue.

Alyx Stark comes screaming into the world, amidst the panic of the servants worried about the fire and the flurry of midwives surrounding the Lady of Winterfell. Catelyn Stark looks at gray eyes and dark brown hair and thinks, _Finally._

The fire is doused by midnight, when the summer snow falls again and covers the remaining ashes in a blanket of white. The newest Stark is looked upon by her siblings, and Jon Snow mutters a grateful prayer to the old gods: she looks exactly like him and Father.

* * *

Six moons pass, and Alyx Stark’s first word is not _Mother_ , not _Father_ , nor any of her siblings’ names, but her own. _Alex_. Not Alyx, not with the tongue flicking in to form the tight _i_ , but with a definite opening of her tiny mouth to pronounce the _e_. She repeats this, loudly and repetitively, that by the time she learns to walk on two pudgy legs everyone in the keep has almost forgotten that her name is Alyx, not Alex. Her constant companion is Jon Snow, who helps her up when she stumbles, and guides her away from places where she is forbidden.

Catelyn sees this once. She snatches Alex away from Jon Snow and shoots him a glare meant to melt the Wall, and Alex _screams_.

She wasn’t quiet, and in her early moons of life the servants have taken to plugging earwax in an effort to sleep through her cries, but this was a full-throated _wail_. It rang throughout the walls of the Great Keep, and Catelyn nearly drops her own daughter in shock.

Jon cringes but he takes a step forward, palms up in a gesture of surrender, and says _Alex_ —

And just like that, Alex stops, and Ned Stark thunders into the hallway with Ice held at the fore, followed closely by Rodrick Cassel and most of the household knights, swords drawn and clearly expecting anything from an abduction to an assassination—

Jon stares at his Father with wide eyes. Catelyn does the same. Alex wriggles madly in her grasp until she has no choice but to let her down on her own two feet. She clutches unsteadily to Catelyn’s dress and looks curiously at the weapons, sharp and glinting in the torchlight of the Great Keep.

“Sword,” she says, and that was her second word.

* * *

Brandon Stark is born, and Alex is forbidden to go outside.

Sansa Stark sits primly at the edge of her featherbed, daintily sewing away a design but sneaking looks at the door. Alex doesn’t speak to her. Catelyn Stark had brought her to Septa Mordane to be taught embroidery and other things to be learned by a Lady, but Alex hears nothing but the crackle of the flame in the fireplace. Septa Mordane calls her _simple_ ; Sansa frowns but does nothing else.

The clash of wood against wood resonates from the training yard, and Alex ignores the screeching of the Septa in favor of staring at her brothers, being trained by Ser Rodrik below. The abandoned needle and thread are stepped upon as Septa physically hauls her away from the window, saying something about _proper Ladies_ and _listening to their elders_ , but Alex wrenches her arm away and hisses back _You don’t belong here, Southerner_ like she heard some of the servants say, and that earns her bed without dinner and a roomful of annoyed Sansa.

A scream ricochets through the keep; Lady Catelyn’s cry make Sansa flinch. Alex looks down at her hands.

Soft, young, barely calloused. The memory of fire bursting from her palm and creeping down her arm is a sharp one; the feeling of a hot metal surface and words like _ignition_ and _heat capacity_ tumble through her brain like a flurry of snow, falling slowly but steadily. The other memories come forth, coaxed out of wherever they were hiding inside her little mind, pieces and bits of the life she once held.

Her last name was the same. Her mother—not Lady Stark—also had red hair, but unlike Eddard Stark her father was lanky and small and smelled constantly of grease and static in the air before a thunderstorm. Being a child had robbed her of the understanding of her predicament, but in the silence of a room with a rapidly expanding mind, Alex Stark holds her hands out and _commands_.

Nothing happens. The trickle of _flame_ that travels constantly from her head to her toes is gone, replaced by pure flesh and bone and absolutely no nanobots that command her heart to breath and give her voice to speak—

Alex Stark cries.

Sansa is up in a flash, embroidery forgotten as she rushes to her sister’s aid.

“Alex? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t belong here,” she gasps out between heaving for breath and uncontrolled sobbing, unable to voice out the myriad of words now falling faster out of the crevice in her mind, a flurry turning rapidly into a blizzard as she _remembers_.

Oh, she remembers.

Dimly, she can hear Sansa call for help as Lady Catelyn’s cries fade into the stonework. The fireplace crackles merrily as Alex Stark heaves from the force of her cries and throws up on her featherbed.

* * *

After her little brother is born— _she doesn’t have a little brother, she’s the youngest, she has a brother and he’s older and his name is Charlie_ —Alex sneaks out under the cover of the night and goes to the smithy.

The fire that ravaged it during her birth is gone, replaced by fresh timber and scrubbed stone. The doors are chained shut, but she had the foresight to bring several of Sansa’s pins and tries to pick the lock. Her child-sized fingers take her some time, and she keeps having to duck whenever the guards on the wall and in the yard pass, but the lock clicks open and she slips through with nary a whisper of her passing.

The smithy, as expected, is disappointing.

The bellows need a man’s full strength to work, and the hammers are too large for her arms, but the whisper of flame and heat lingers in the air and Alex takes a deep breath of the burnt coal and the acrid scent of superheated metal. Swords and shields are lined on one wall, while scythes, pickaxes, and other implements not for war are lined on the other.

Alex takes a turn around the smithy. The forge is still warm, primed to be lit for tomorrow while the smiths themselves sleep. She commits every tool, every place, every station to her memory, and slips out again, careful to lock the doors behind her.

Before she slipped out, she took an apple, in case she gets caught and needed to explain why she was away from her bed so late, but it is unneeded as she slips past the household guard and climbs into the freshly changed featherbed.

“Alex?”

Alex freezes in the act of drawing the furs over her body.

“Where did you go?” Sansa murmurs, barely audible in the darkness of the room, but her blue eyes glitter from underneath her own set of furs.

“The privy,” Alex lies.

“No, you didn’t,” Sansa replies.

“No, I didn’t,” Alex says, and muffles any further questions with the furs drawn over her head.

* * *

Robb Stark is the Heir to Winterfell. Jon Snow is his brother, a bastard, yes, but his brother all the same. Sansa is his little sister, always singing songs and learning how to be a Lady. Brandon is the little brother, always crawling, always holding onto something. Alex…

The Heir to Winterfell watches as Alex is escorted outside the smithy for the third time this week. Jon receives her from Mikken’s grasp, slinging one hand over her shoulder with an easy grin. They truly do look like siblings, with similar hair and the same gray eyes, but where Jon’s eyes remind him of snowfall in the night, Alex’s piercing gray reminds him of ashes in the fireplace.

Robb doesn’t know when his sister changed, but he can point where she started being vocal about it. He remembers the moon after Bran was born, when Alex stood at the middle of the Great Hall and announced her intention to be a blacksmith.

Needless to say, Mother did not take that well.

“Robb!” Jon calls, arm still firmly around Alex. Her mulish expression makes him chuckle, but the way her eyes stray towards his practice sword silences him from any remark.

“Again, Alex?”

“They’re being stupid,” she hisses, and the venom in her voice takes him aback.

“Alex,” Robb tries, trying to summon the chastising tone of Father, “You shouldn’t say that about Mikken and—”

Alex snarls, almost feral in the way she growls, and shoves off Jon’s arm with all the strength a five-year-old can muster. “You don’t know anything! Go away!” She says as she stomps off in the direction of Great Keep. Robb frowns.

“Did Mikken do anything?”

“No more than usual,” Jon replies, looking far too much at ease. “I arrived just when she was telling a smith the ways on how he can replace the bellows with something that won’t hurt his arm or back in the process.”

“Huh.” Is all Robb can say to that. “How does she know about that?”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe she read a book? She’s been spending a lot of time with Maester Luwin recently.”

 _No, that wasn’t it_. Robb thinks of how Alex made her announcement, her eyes glittering silver like a well-polished sword, and the way she looks at Mother as if she’s wondering whether to follow her orders, and how no matter how Septa Mordane bars the door, Alex always finds her way to the smithy.

“Here’s a thought, Jon,” Robb says, in the afternoon light. “What if we ask Father to let her learn to smith?”

Jon looks at him as if he’s gone mad, and honestly Robb feels the same as soon as he spoke the words out loud.

“What?”

“I mean, maybe she’ll calm down if we let her do what she wants,” he reasons.

“And Lady Stark?”

Robb winces. Yes, Mother will oppose that. She’s already taken to locking Alex in her room and posting a guard at her door, but no matter how many bribes and threats go her way, Alex remains steadfast in her decision to become a smith. She doesn’t throw tantrums but withholding food does nothing to make her pick up a needle and thread. Oh, she knows when to curtsy and minds her manners, but Alex has seemingly made up her mind about being a smith and it looks like no one is going to convince her otherwise.

“Maybe we can say that for an hour in the smithy, Alex follows Septa Mordane’s lessons?” Robb offers up.

“Ladies don’t belong in the smithy,” Jon replies, but it’s not his words: it’s Lady Stark’s. Alex’s reply of _I’m not a Lady_ ring through their heads, the memory crystal clear.

“She doesn’t have to hold a hammer, she can just watch,” Robb adds.

“Who’s going to make sure she behaves in the smithy?”

“Well, that’s obvious!” Robb claps a hand on Jon’s back. “You!”

“Wh—me?”

“Yes, you’re her favorite anyway,” Robb grins. “I’ll tell Father later.”

Jon frowns at him. “And what about your Lady Mother? I don’t think she’ll appreciate having the bastard take care of Alex.”

“You’re still our brother, Jon. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Mother too.”

Jon nods at him, still skeptical, but Robb could see how his shoulders are just a little bit less tense. He grins and throws a companionable hand over Jon’s shoulder. They’re brothers, they take care of their younger siblings, and that will never change.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Surprisingly, it works.

After lunch, Alex stays in the presence of Septa Mordane. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t reply to the septa’s pointed remarks that border on insulting, doesn’t answer Sansa’s concern disguised as taunts, and works on finishing her embroidery as fast as possible. It’s not the neatest piece in the world, but Alex is good with her hands and even better at ignoring the world, that she forgets that she’s supposed to be five namedays old and children that young are _not_ supposed to master embroidery so quickly at that age.

_Oops._

Sansa is aghast at the gray wolf, full-bodied and midleap, on Alex’s hoop. “That’s beautiful!”

Septa Mordane holds the piece up to her narrowed eyes and examines the stitching. Alex doesn’t wait for permission as she bolts through the door, dodging the guard’s arms with a well-timed jump, and narrowly misses crashing into Catelyn Stark.

“Alex Stark!”

“I’m done!” She hollers back, little feet pounding on the stone floor.

“Get back here!”

Alex pretends not to hear anything as she descends the narrow castle stairs. Sooner or later, they’d give in, but she wasn’t expecting it this soon. _Pushovers_. Alex only had a week of not being tempted by food and desserts. Some thought she’d give in soon; _ha_! Maybe if she really were a five-year-old, she would, but Alex is twenty-three and used to eating at odd times when projects run over, and she managed to keep her control.

She clears the distance between the Great Hall and the door, curving around Jory Cassel as she runs towards the smithy. In the distance, she could see Jon Snow outlined against the stone wall. Good; she can start observing the smithy as soon as possible.

“Let’s—go,” Alex huffs as she skids to a stop. Jon laughs at her.

“Calm down first, Alex,” he says, before bending down to whisper in her ear, “I hear Mikken’s working on some armor today.”

Alex straightens. _Finally!_ A few days of seeing nothing but swords, sickles and knives can get boring, even for someone who wants to learn the art of the hammer. Alex nods eagerly and clasps Jon’s hand as they walk inside.

She likes Jon, but his tendency to treat her like a child is annoying. Everyone does, really, but Jon is the only one in here that looks like her, and that’s enough to make her tolerate him. What matters is the foothold she gained: permission to watch. A few more moons and it will be permission to hold. Then after that, permission to start helping. Soon enough, it will be permission to create, and that’s what Alex needs. Being a Lady can be left to Sansa; Alex wants to bend steel to her will.

And if every time she enters the smithy, something in her body calls out to the fire, then it’s only affirming her desire to be a smith in her own right.

* * *

In the distant North, just beyond the Wall, Brynden Rivers tries for the umpteenth time to view the future. But just like the last thirty times he tried, the future remained full of smoke and inexplicably, heat that reminds him of an active forge.

His aged hand slams on the roots of the weirwood tree. “Damn it!”

The Children of the Forest draw back further at his angry tone, and he throws a glare in their direction before trying once again to See.

‘What changed?’ he thinks, as his eyes roll up in his head. ‘Why is the future suddenly closed to me?’

* * *

The Night King draws back further into the blizzard. There had been no more attempts by the Three-Eyed Raven to glimpse his location, and thus it is a cause of worry. He is not ready, yet.

But the fire…

He shakes his head. The vision means nothing to him. Fire is quick to light, but also quick to die. It would not be an obstacle.

And yet…

He clenches a fist and waves for the White Walkers to turn back. There may yet be more opportunities to gather and reap wights out of men in this frozen land. He is patient. After all, he has been waiting for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, I wanted to read about this scenario, so I wrote it down. 
> 
> For now, you can read this as it is (a currently unknown OC in the ASOIAF/GOT verse or as someone that may or may not sound familiar (I've dropped enough hints to her backstory and origins, but stay tuned for more).
> 
> Is this crack? It might as well be. As the tags say, I plan to fuck around and find out. Are the tags accurate? So far yes, that is the direction I want to take this in, but if anything changes, I'll update it accordingly.
> 
> EDIT: FIXED IT. This is loads better than the one I've planned, AND I'm making it a one-shot. I've changed my mind, this is going to be a series of one-shots. For those who liked the original chaos version of Alex, I'm sorry, but don't worry, if I get more time I will write her entire backstory in a separate fic. Cheers!


End file.
